ith their gyves,
and hale the traitor to prison."

He approached the door; the others stood as icy statues, but not Hermione.
She had her back against the door before the orator could open.

"Hold," she commanded, "for you are doing murder!"

Democrates halted at the menacing light in her eyes. All the fear had gone
out of them. Athena Promachos, "Mistress of Battles," must have stood in
that awful beauty when aroused. Did the goddess teach her in that dread
moment of her power over the will of the orator? Glaucon was still
standing motionless, helpless, his last appeal having ended in mute
resignation to inevitable fate. She motioned to him desperately.

"Glaucon! Glaucon!" she adjured, "do not throw your life away. They shall
not murder you. Up! Rouse yourself! There is yet time. Fly, or all is
lost."

"Fly!" spoke the athlete, almost vacantly. "No, I will brave them to the
end."

"For my sake, fly," she ordered, and conjured by that potent talisman,
Glaucon moved toward her.

"How? Whither?"

"To the ends of the earth, Scythia, Atlantis, India, and remain till all
Athens knows you are innocent."

As men move who know not what they do, he approached the door. Held by the
magic of her eyes the others stood rigid. They saw Hermione raise the
latch. Her husband's face met hers in one kiss. The door opened, closed.
Glaucon was gone, and as the latch clicked Democrates shook off the charm
and leaped forward.

"After the traitor! Not too late!--"

For an instant he wrestled with Hermione hand to hand, but she was strong
through fear and love. He could not master her. Then a heavy grasp fell on
his shoulder--Cimon's.

"You are beside yourself, Democrates. My memory is longer than yours. To
me Glaucon is still a friend. I'll not see him dragged to death before my
eyes. When we follow even a fox or a wolf, we give fair start and fair
play. You shall not pursue him yet."

"Blessing on you!" cried the wife, falling on her knees and seizing
Cimon's cloak. "Oh, make Themistocles and my father merciful!"

Hermippus--tender-hearted man--was in tears. Themistocles was pacing the
little chamber, his hand tugging his beard, clearly in grievous doubt.

"The Scythians! The constables!" Democrates clamoured frantically; "every
instant gives the traitor better start."

But Cimon held him fast, and Themistocles was not to be interrupted. Only
after a long time he spoke, and then with authority which brooked no
contradic